


Fils

by fraisemilk



Series: Onomatopoeia [7]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6078720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it is a heartbeat to the chest, a drumming vibrato in your fingers. Perhaps it is another beast in you, hushing down the black blood; you remember, and remember, and remember. As you sewed lines and edges of red thread on a stained handkerchief, your mother whispering: this beast will not control you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fils

It was just sitting there, wasn’t it? For so long, it has waited – with its scraped knees and its dark eyes, half open, dull light, dull life, waiting, waiting there, sitting in your dreams…

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps it is a heartbeat to the chest, a drumming vibrato in your fingers. Perhaps it is another beast in you, a quiet, cunning shadow with white parched teeth, one that loves to remember things that ache because they are too soft, things that you crave because they once were, things that hurt because they are too far, now. You thought it had disappeared. You thought Black Teeth had sunk its claws inside the memories’ guts, pulled out their heart –

But when you touch the silk of the kimono that covers the samurai, a shiver travels from the tip of your fingers to the tip of your ears. Cotton feeling. On the bed, the sleeping warrior exhales. Somethings growls, growls in you, in the pit of your stomach, and you don’t know which beast is speaking. White or Black teeth? Remember, it says: the needle and the thimble, the pace and the rhythm, the thin fingers and the pale wrists of your mother – ‘Ow’, the needle piercing the delicate skin of your finger, a drop of blood, the amused grin of your mother –… You touch the silk of the kimono, and notice a hole in the back of the right sleeve, and your violent instincts subside suddenly.

Black Teeth disappears;

  

* * *

 

You are four years old, and your mother braids your hair, late on an evening. Cotton feeling, the softness of her cold fingers on the shell of your ears, brushing the nape of your neck. She uses a piece of the ribbon that holds her own hair; “Don’t lose it” she says. A strand of red hair escapes the grip of her fingers and tickles down the curve of your brow; she doesn’t push it back. “Don’t lose it,” she repeats. You promise. She smiles at you. Cotton feeling. In your guts, something sweet twists.

 

Her worried scowls

The owl rounded orbs of blue eyes

Eyes that see tears and holes in

Clothes

The tunic smoothed down and folded

Corners, sewn back and back and back;

The needle’s pace, the thin fingers and the pale wrists

Lithe –

Quiet, the handkerchief she hands to you.

Quiet, your heart, when the thread pierces

White cotton and flesh.

‘Ow’, and a piece of blood on white waters

Spreads like a disease, burns like a flower.

 

* * *

  

Clutch the fabric between your fingers, slip a thread in the needle, sew the corners back together. Remember: the soft voice of your mother, and her worried scowls as she discovers a fight has torn your clothes once again –

You know what to do. She has taught it to you.

 

* * *

 

 Perhaps it is a heartbeat to the chest, a drumming vibrato in your fingers. Perhaps it is another beast in you, hushing down the black blood; you remember, and remember, and remember. As you sewed lines and edges of red thread on a stained handkerchief, your mother whispering: this beast will not control you. The rhythm of your heartbeat, the tempo of your breathing. Lungs that inhale, lungs that exhale. A needle twisting, piercing the piece of clothing, folding into place corners of soft fabric;

Perhaps it is the memory of it that makes you touch the kimono and remember those cold, rainy days in your old home. Next to you, the samurai breathes. You could break his neck. You could kill this wretched beast – you could end yourself in the twist and the ugly sound of bones going out of place.

Perhaps it is the memory of a scowl, of a blue owl stare and of bright red hair that stops you; perhaps it is the cold hand of White Teeth that clutches your heart too tight, holds in its humid grip strings of skin and muscles. You let your instinct go; you suddenly feel very cold. Beating, throbbing, the one part of you that likes to remember things that ache because they are too soft, things that you crave because they were there, once, things that hurt because they are over, now.

Where is the ribbon she gave you?

You have lost it to violence and meaningless fights – you tried to sew it back together in the corner of a street – it was soaked with blood.

It has fallen on the ground and you didn’t notice until you were home – it was dark and your sister was waiting for you.

Where is the secret charm she gave you?

You have lost it to violence and meaningless fights – you have abandoned it on the ground of your old home – you have closed your eyes and clenched your teeth and left it behind; what’s the use of it anymore? This is a world of struggle; this is a world of rain. This beast controls you.

 

For the Yato blood

Is a thread that runs in our veins;

Pale purple and red – from the tip of our ears

To the owl rounded orbs of blue eyes.

Don’t scowl at me like that –

Corners, sewn back and back and back

Will break apart again.

Torn apart: the tunic you so carefully smoothed down

So carefully folded.

Loud, the fist that crushes a child and a soldier.

Loud, your heart, when the bullets pierce

Red flesh and cotton.

‘Ow’, and a piece of memory on red waters

Spreads like a disease, burns like a flower.

 

* * *

  

It was just sitting there, wasn’t it? The memory of a memory. Long, long ago, your mom’s smiles took root in you. Cotton feeling. You haven’t lost anything – long, long ago, you just discarded it, Kamui. Now it is time to sew yourself back together. Someone is calling; you promised.

 

* * *

 

 Perhaps it is the softness of the fabric that reminds you of the small charm your mother gave you on a cold, rainy day. You take a needle from the medical kit, and some ugly green thread; you start sewing the thorn corners back together. Everything is quiet in you. Black teeth is asleep; White teeth is asleep. You are alone in this world of struggle. You are alone, but you feel calm. You remember the rain.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Fils" means "son" in French, but it's also the plural of "thread". You know, I think Kagura and Kamui's mother knew how to deal with the yato blood thing - for the most part, at least. She tried to teach it to her children; Kagura left and found an answer, Kamui left and fought. But a redemption is still possible... Because there's always a way to change, that's what Gintama's telling us. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
